


Wink Wink, Nudge Nudge

by alltheshinywords



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 10:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18737242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheshinywords/pseuds/alltheshinywords
Summary: Post 8x03, slightly AU. Tormund and Jaime inexplicably find themselves becoming matchmakers when they notice a certain chemistry between Jon Snow and Sansa Stark. Extreme fluff and silliness.





	Wink Wink, Nudge Nudge

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very silly plot bunny that would not leave me alone. I wouldn't necessarily say this is how the season should have progressed, but it would have been very entertaining to watch. EXTREME fluff-- you have been warned.

It has been said that war makes strange bedfellows, and nowhere was this truer than the bushy ginger wildling and the handsome golden knight, side-by-side at the fire in the hearth of the great hall of Winterfell. When they had met the day before, they had been strangers, opposites in nearly every way, perhaps even rivals. But now, they drank from matching mugs and recounted the events of the Battle of Winterfell, arms slung companionably around each other’s shoulders.

 

“Did I tell you about how Tormund appeared from nowhere and speared two wights who were inches from tearing out my throat?” asked Jaime.

 

“Three or four times,” said Brienne of Tarth.

 

Tormund waved off Jaime’s praise. “That’s nothing. What about the handsome lion throwing his golden hand to distract the wight that had me in a choke-hold?”

 

“Six or seven,” said Brienne.

 

Ignoring this decided lack of enthusiasm, Tormund began the tale afresh, with Jaime listening on and shaking his head as he held up the life-saving appendage. “It was all I could think of! Might as well get some use out of it.”

 

Brienne stood abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping across the stone floor. “I’m going to go outside, get some air.” She waited an expectant moment, but Tormund and Jaime both seemed suddenly preoccupied with staring into the flames.

 

At her side, Podrick cleared his throat. “I’ll come with you, if it’s all the same, ser.”

 

Brienne didn’t respond, just strode out of the hall, leaving Pod to follow behind her. Tyrion watched after them, shaking his head. “Did it ever occur to either of you that after a terrible life or death battle, after staring at one’s mortality straight in the face, when a woman suggests that she wants to get some air, she isn’t talking about ‘getting some air’?”

 

Neither Tormund nor Jaime responded to this, continuing to find the fire inexplicably fascinating.

 

“Idiots, both of you,” said Tyrion, leaving them to their own company.

 

It wasn’t that Tormund and Jaime were oblivious, either one of them, nor that their respective feelings toward Brienne had changed. But something had happened on the battlefield that made the pettiness of a romantic rivalry just seem so...petty. Though neither had said it out loud, there was an unspoken understanding between them. A life for a life. A debt for a debt. How could they break that, and turn on each other the moment the battle was over, all for the love of a woman?

 

A particularly strong, brave, beautiful, and loyal woman, it was true. The kind of which was found only once in a lifetime. But, there was a code. There was a kind of honor in the kinship formed on the battlefield, even amongst Wildlings and Lannisters.

 

As the night wore on, they remained by each other’s sides and recounted tales from their lives. Battles, at first, and then as more ale was consumed, women.

 

“What’s the strangest woman that’s ever shared your bed?” asked Tormund. They were both of them sitting forward now, drunk enough that leaning on one another was no longer merely a sign of companionship, but a necessity.

 

Jaime shook his head. “Not a wildling or a giant, so I suppose you’ll have me beat.” He took a bracing sip of ale. “Truth be told, there’s only been one for me.”

 

The look on Tormund’s face made clear in an instant to whom he thought Jaime was referring, and what dangerous ground they had very nearly veered toward. “No, not—” Jaime almost said her name, but corrected himself. “I meant my sister. My twin, actually.” It must have been the ale causing him to be so free with the information, or the even more potent adrenaline still coursing from his near death. He had never admitted this so openly to anyone, not of his own free volition. “It’s ... a complicated story.”

 

Tormund frowned at him—not with disgust or revulsion, as Jaime had feared, but rather, confusion. “Do all of you Southroners like to fuck your sisters?” he asked, sounding genuinely perplexed.

 

Jaime had to laugh at that. He supposed he could go into the Targaryens, although technically they weren’t native Westerosi (at least, not historically), and anyway, it was probably a longer answer than Tormund really wanted. “Not as a general rule, no.” He took another long swig of his ale, offering a wry smile to defuse some of the discomfort he felt at being laid out so bare. “Dare I ask, how many sister fuckers do you know, anyway?”

 

“Just you, and the little crow.”

 

It took Jaime a moment to catch his meaning. Frowning, he followed Tormund’s head jerk toward Jon Snow, seated at the head of the room, between Daenerys and Sansa. He was glowering as usual, no trace of humor to be found on his admittedly pretty features.

 

Jaime laughed in outright disbelief. “You’re telling me Jon Snow, the honorable bastard of the honorable Ned Stark, wants to fuck his sister?”

 

Tormund shrugged a little, uncowed by the derision in Jaime’s tone. “Mock all you like, but watch them, first, then tell me I’m wrong.”

 

So Jaime watched them. For two days, he watched Jon Snow pointedly not look at his sister Sansa, until for one brief moment he thought for certain no one was watching him, and let his eyes slide to her and drink her in like a man dying of thirst. He watched the look of contempt that would cross Sansa’s face whenever the Dragon Queen entered the room, the way her entire body would tense any time Daenerys and Jon would interact, in even the blandest, most perfunctory ways.

 

“Jon Snow wants to fuck his sister,” Jaime told Tormund when they reunited again, shaking his head in disbelief. “And she wants to let him.”

 

It was another night of drinking, of mourning, of living to the fullest after nearly dying, and truthfully, Jaime and Tormund were well into their cups again. Still, this perhaps did not entirely excuse the enthusiasm with which they discussed the possible pairing of Jon Snow and the oldest Stark girl.

 

“At first I thought it had to be wrong, twisted, like Cersei and me,” Jaime told his brother-in-arms. “But the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I mean, they look just like Ned and Catelyn. You didn’t know them, but Ned was just as grouchy and insufferably honorable, and Catelyn was just as bullheaded and fiercely protective of her family.”

 

Tormund stroked his beard. “You didn’t know _her_ , but the Stark girl looks like Jon’s old lover. A Wildling girl. Ygritte. Bright red hair and blue eyes, she had.”

 

“No!”

 

“Aye.”

 

“....Plus, if you think about it, he knows military tactics. She knows politics. They’d be virtually unstoppable together.”

 

Tormund nodded his assent. “And I wouldn’t mind watching them take a turn at it. Him all dark and muscles, her all cream and fire...”

 

And later, once a certain blonde knight had failed to appear for supper, and the two men had had even more to drink: “We have to help them,” Jaime cried, with a crash of his mug on the tabletop for emphasis. “It’s our responsibility, our duty, as friends—well, allies at the very least. Those two noble idiots will never admit what’s right in front of them.”

 

“Never,” Tormund slurred his agreement.

 

“I promised Catelyn Stark I would keep her daughter safe, and Jon Snow will keep her safe.” Jaime pointed his index finger for emphasis. “Ergo. Ergo... we have to trick them into fucking.”

 

“Aye,” agreed Tormund, scratching liberally at his beard. “But, er, how?”

 

The night was winding down, and many of those who had earlier filled the great hall had long since departed for bed. Luckily, the Stark girl and the King in the North were still at their places at the head table, not speaking or even looking at one another, but doubtless wanting to linger just a little longer to be near each other (or at least, this was Jaime’s and Tormund’s assessment of the situation).

 

“A little jealousy is just the thing to bring feelings out into the open,” Jaime told Tormund. “Watch and learn, my friend.”

 

Tormund grunted his assent as Jaime half-stumbled to the head table. Sansa had been talking to Lord Royce on her right, but looked up at the Lannister’s approach. “Ser Jaime.” She frowned as he pitched forward and caught himself at the edge of the table. “Are you well?”

 

Jaime offered his most suave smile. “Never better.” He glanced over to make sure Jon wasn’t otherwise engaged in conversation (and was thus free to overhear) before continuing. “I came to tell you that I like your dress. It tells a story, I can see that.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “I’d like to hear your story, milady. If you’d care to tell me.”

 

This was all very nearly ruined by the belch that he managed to swallow down at the last instant. Sansa stared at him in what could only be confusion, blinking a few times. Jaime saw, with some glee, that she very nearly glanced over at Jon to see if he had heard this exchange, before catching herself. “Well, I suppose we could ... talk, sometime.”

 

Not having nearly an ounce of Sansa’s self-control, Jaime dared a glance at Jon Snow, who was glaring daggers at him, hand clenched into a fist. Unable to contain his grin, Jaime reached for Sansa’s hand and gave it a kiss, just to really egg her brother on. “Until then, Lady Sansa.”

 

He returned to Tormund, eager to gloat about how well it had all gone, but the Wildling was already on his feet, passing him by before he could stop him. “My turn,” he grunted, adjusting his pelts.

 

He sauntered up to the spot Jaime had just vacated, never breaking eye contact with Sansa as he approached. She stilled, watching him with a wary curiosity. “What can I do for you, Tormund?”

 

Tormund took his time, looking her over speculatively, holding her gaze once more for just a moment too long, before at last straightening to his full height and clearing his throat. “Wanna fuck?”

 

Sansa looked too stunned to do much more than gape at him, though at her side, Jon choked on his drink and had to pound at his chest several times to be able to breathe properly once more. “Tormund,” he said at last when he was able, sounding more baffled than angry, “you can’t speak to my sister that way—surely you know that.”

 

Tormund half-turned to give Jaime an enthusiastic little thumb’s up before looking back to Jon with a knowing look. “Doesn’t hurt to ask. Remember that, little crow.”

 

And with that, he strolled back to his chair, looking pleased as punch with himself.

 

 

#

 

The next morning, a decidedly more sober Tormund and Jaime awoke to find themselves sleeping in the courtyard. Between their pounding headaches, sour stomachs, and general all-around shabbiness, it took them a moment to remember how and why they had ended up here of all places. After drinking even more in the great hall, the two had come outside to piss and talk about more strategies to urge Jon and Sansa together. Somewhere along the way, they had apparently passed out. And vomited, too, from the looks of the puddle a few feet away.

 

“Gods, what were we thinking?” Jaime moaned, rubbing at his temples. “This is so childish. Let them find their way to each other or not—what does it have to do with us?”

 

Tormund grunted, waiting a bit before sheepishly adding, “They would be good together, though.”

 

A beat, and then Jaime nodded. “Last night, before I blacked out, I remember thinking that if you combine their names together, you get Jonsa.”

 

“Jonsa,” Tormund agreed, grinning. “It has a nice ring to it.”

 

“Idiots!”

 

Both men looked up and then attempted (and failed) to scramble to their feet at the sight of Brienne storming over to them, looking outraged as a ... well, it was hard to come up with an appropriate metaphor with such a pounding headache, but suffice it to say she looked upset.

 

“How dare you,” Brienne seethed, drawing herself up to her full, impressive height as she came to a stop before them. She turned her ire first to Jaime. “You, attempting to woo a girl half your age, after I vouched for your moral character. It’s disgusting and degrading.”

 

“I agree,” Jaime returned, wincing. “But maybe just a little less volume, if you please...”

 

She ignored him, rounding on Tormund. “And you. ‘Wanna fuck’?” At the gleam in his eye, she hastened to correct, “I’m repeating, not asking. How dare you speak to the Lady of Winterfell that way?”

 

“It wasn’t what it looked like,” Jaime hastened to reassure her. “Really, it’s a funny story.”

 

Brienne folded her arms. “Go ahead, then. Make me laugh.”

 

Tormund and Jaime exchanged a glance, waging a silent war as to who would come clean. Finally, with a sigh, Jaime capitulated. “We were trying to make Jon Snow jealous.”

 

“Jealous?” Brienne still looked skeptical, but clearly she hadn’t expected this response, and curiosity seemed to be getting the best of her. “Why?”

 

Tormund lowered his gaze, like a schoolboy being caught out cheating at his lessons. “We want them to get married and make lots of babies.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“Because they love each other,” returned Jaime. “It’s so obvious, if you really think about it.”

 

Brienne shook her head. “Of all the stupid things that you could have possibly said, that makes the least amount of sense. And I was prepared for you to say somebody had put a spell on you, or something.”

 

Another exchanged glance between the two men. “That’s good,” said Tormund, “we should have gone for that.”

 

They were interrupted by voices coming from the opposite side of the courtyard. Jon and Sansa. On some irrational instinct, Jaime and Tormund both reached out to pull Brienne down behind the wagon they’d passed out underneath the night before, putting a finger to their lips to shh her protest. “Listen,” Tormund instructed her. “Watch.”

 

With a roll of her eyes, Brienne complied.

 

Jon and Sansa came into view, Sansa walking a little ahead and looking vaguely irritated. “...So that must be the only explanation?”

 

“They were both acting out of character, you have to admit,” Jon returned. “I don’t care for Jaime Lannister”—behind the wagon, Jaime pulled a face at this—“but even he doesn’t generally go around trying to seduce any woman he sees, I’ll give him that much.”

 

“Oh, yes, they must have been too drunk or sick to realize what they were doing,” said Sansa. “Maybe even poisoned. Why else would anybody show an interest in me unless they were after my title and lands?”

 

She was trying to sound offhand about the entire thing, but there was an unmistakable edge to her voice. Jon reached out to catch her hand, stopping her in her tracks. Sansa looked down to where their fingers were intertwined, then kept her gaze downcast, avoiding his gaze.

 

“Sansa.” Jon sounded, unaccountably, out of breath. “Any man... _any_ man would be lucky to...” He shook his head. “Would be the _luckiest_ in all of Westeros.”

 

The words were clunky, unpolished, but the feeling behind them unmistakable. Sansa at last met his gaze, held it, for just a beat too long, before venturing a small smile. “So I should go find Tormund, then?”

 

Jon Snow laughed—honest to god laughed, his face looking so unaccustomed to it that for a moment Jaime thought he must be about to cry. The two of them stood silently laughing together, as behind the wagon, Tormund muttered under his breath, “What’s so funny about that?”

 

It took the two would-be lovebirds a belated moment to realize they were still holding hands. Their eyes caught again, held, and for a moment, it looked as if Jon Snow might open his mouth and say something—

 

And then Davos was crossing the yard, eagerly flagging them down. “My lord, the queen requests your presence immediately.”

 

The smile faded from Jon’s face, as if someone had snuffed out a candle and all its brightness. He glanced back at Sansa, whose expression, too, had gone completely blank at the mention of the dragon queen. Jon opened his mouth as if to say something, then seemed to think better of it, and simply walked away. A moment later, Sansa left, too, heading the opposite direction, toward the godswood, hugging herself as if for warmth.

 

Behind the wagon, Tormund and Jaime watched Brienne’s reaction expectantly. For a moment, she blinked, seeming to be trying her best to reshape the entire thing into something else, but simply could not. At last, she looked up with wide eyes. “Jon Snow and Sansa Stark ... love each other,” she murmured in open wonder.

 

“Piffle,” said a voice, looming over them suddenly. They jumped to see Davos standing there, his face set grimly. “Jon Snow loves Daenerys Targaryen, and Sansa is his loyal sister. That’s all.” He stared them down a moment, each in turn. “Understand?”

 

The man was not all that intimidating, and yet something in his gaze brooked no argument. “Yes,” all three agreed sheepishly, looking down at the ground until at last the older man had left.

 

An awkward moment’s silence followed, as Tormund and Jaime suddenly found themselves exactly as they’d been hoping to avoid the past few days—with Brienne of Tarth wedged uncomfortably between them.

 

She was the first to rise to her feet, clearing her throat. “I should see to Lady Sansa.” For a moment, it seemed as though she was waiting for one of them—both of them, maybe?—to stop her, but when neither did, she turned and purposefully made her way across the yard.

 

Another long silence. At long last, Jaime spoke. “I don’t care what he says. Those two love each other. But if they’re meant to be together, I suppose they’ll find each other. Who are we, or Davos, or anyone else, to get in the way?” He shook his head. “They’re already doing a good enough job of that.”

 

“Love’s messy,” Tormund agreed with a grunt of assent. “But worth it. Only a fool would let it slip by without fighting for it.”

 

The two gave each other a long, assessing look, then nodded in understanding. “May the best man win,” Jaime said with a half smile.

 

“Don’t worry,” Tormund returned. “I intend to.”

 

Yes, only a fool would stand in his own way when it came to true love, each man ruminated as they left with hearts and heads full of Brienne of Tarth. And fall short as they might in many other ways in comparison to the King in the North, when it came down to it, it turned out neither man was as much a fool as Jon Snow...

 

...even if he and Sansa _would_ have the prettiest babies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
